


how to open the door

by Tyleet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, F/M, Implied Incest, Self Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:52:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyleet/pseuds/Tyleet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Step one: </p><p>Find the boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how to open the door

**Author's Note:**

> For spnrubytuesday. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine.

Step one:

Find the boy and level with him.  
  
“Who the hell are you?” he demands, gun in his hands and blood on his shirt and salt and sulfur in the air. Give him a grin. It’ll make him wonder.  
  
“I’m the girl who just saved your ass.” 

You have to tell the truth, as much of it as you can bear. You really are different. You really will give him a knife that can kill you. You really do love French fries. You really do remember being human, once. Let him see the black of your eyes. Let him know exactly what he’s getting into.  
  
It’s easier than you thought it would be. He has warm, clear eyes, a curved boyish mouth, and hands made for killing. Eyes that make you want to tell the truth, and a hard, threatening body that demands it.  
  
“I’m interested in you,” you say, all honesty and banked excitement.  
  
“Why?” he snaps, his huge brown hand curling threateningly against the tabletop, fingernails scratching the plastic. The waitress eyes him warily over his shoulder, and you wonder if he even notices how much he scares people.  
  
“Because you’re tall,” you tell him, sucking the salt off the end of a golden fry. “I love a tall man.” You let yourself smile, just a little. The truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. “And then there’s that whole Antichrist thing.”

Step two:

Get the boy to trust you.  
  
Risk your life, over and over again. Show him the knife you carry. Show him all the ways the knife could kill you. Risk your death, over and over again.  
  
It won’t work.  
  
“I can save Dean,” you tell him, and watch hope spark and flare in his eyes, hungry and brown.  
  
There’s your first lie. You’d say it’s a mistake, but he’ll forgive you for it in the end.  
  
His brother dies, and Sam grows sharp as a knife, all edge, no handle. Everywhere you touch him you cut yourself.

You show up on his doorstep in a brand new body. It’s not perfect—you’ve been trying to pick tall blondes, bodies that might remind him of the girl he lost, might get him to trust you subconsciously.  
  
You’re surprised to find that he likes you better this way: small and dark and nothing like Jess. You think about it for a while, looking at your dark hair in the mirror, and then find yourself a leather jacket and an amulet to wear around your neck. You call him _Sammy,_ and he flinches.

It’s not your favorite body. Nor is echoing Dean Winchester your favorite look. It feels strange being the only occupant. You talked to the girls in your last bodies—they weren’t going anywhere, and you needed to share your secrets with _someone_ or else start screaming. This is almost lonely.  
  
It’s worth it, though, for the way his eyes darken, for the way his huge hands tighten around your neck, the small of your back, shift down to your waist and thighs, lifting you like you’re nothing.  
  
He tastes like salt, and you press your hands to his chest and his tattoo burns against your palm.  
  
“Come on,” you whisper as he rips at the front of your jeans, your arms locked around his perfect shoulders. “Come on, it’s just us.

He bites the side of your neck to shut you up, and the implication makes you gasp for air, worsens the ache running down your spine, pooling in your belly.

“That was nice,” you say when it’s over, smoothing a hand over the soft short hair at the base of his neck. He’s relaxed, eyes open, his hands still curved possessively over your skin.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he says.  
  
“Don’t get all sentimental on me, Winchester,” you tell him, but secretly you’re thrilled, because he bitches at you for a minute or so more, but he’s easy at your side, and his eyes slide closed. Like he knows you won’t kill him in his sleep.  
  
After that, it’s only a matter of time before you’re staring down at his resentful eyes and cutting your own wrist open, before his lips settle against your hot, slippery skin and _suck_.

He grips your waist, and you stroke his hair, and you remember with a sudden jolt of gladness that he will crave the taste of you for the rest of his life.

Step three: 

Fall in love with him.  
  
This was always part of the plan.

He won’t ever fall in love with you if you don’t.  
  
He leaves his newly-risen brother sleeping alone on a motel bed to meet you by the ice machine.

  
You drag him out to his father’s car and pull him into the backseat, like you’re teenagers, like you have nowhere else to go, and he’s already shuddering, his eyes black with want.  
  
“I need it,” he’s saying, and you nod, because you need him too.  
  
He opens up his pants and you open up a vein and then he’s inside you and you’re inside him. You’re both shaking already, addicts on a high after days of withdrawal.  
  
“Sam,” you mouth, because you can’t get the breath to speak his name, your hands digging into his back, the leather sweaty and slick underneath you. He groans something that might be your name, giving your wrist one last swipe of his tongue before kissing you wordless.  
  
You might tell him you love him right before he comes. You’re not sure, because then you’re coming, and this is why all the demons in hell want back into warm human bodies, Sam’s teeth in your neck and his hands bruising your waist and this white-hot rush and the sound of his heart beating so close to yours.  
  
He doesn’t tell you he loves you back, but that’s all right. You can taste your blood in his mouth when you kiss him goodnight. He’ll call you tomorrow, strained and cryptic, already desperate again. He’ll be yours, not Dean’s, not a dead girl’s. He’ll belong to _you_ , and no one else.  
  
Except for your Lord. Of course.  
  
Step four:  
  
Do not lose faith in your father.  
  
You pick up Sam’s phone when he’s in the bathroom and whisper into it, your caged Lord guiding your voice, a year’s practice echoing Dean Winchester shaping your words. You think of Sam looking at you with haunted eyes, of Sam telling you he’s changed. You think of the perfect certainty you both share. You’re doing the right thing.  
  
“Listen to me, you bloodsucking freak. Dad always said I'd either have to save you or kill you. Well, I'm giving you fair warning. I'm done trying to save you. You're a monster, Sam--a vampire. You're not you anymore. And there's no going back.”

You know he is yours when he drives his father’s car through the night with you riding shotgun, listening to an innocent woman beg for her life in the trunk.

Step five:  
  
Stand back.  
  
“You opened the door,” you whisper, awed.  
  
The circle on the floor lights up with Lilith’s blood, and you’re so elated you’re almost weeping with joy. You did it. You did it, you’ve won, and now your Father will return, and Sam will be at his right hand and you will be at Sam’s right hand, and there will be no more secrets, because no more secrets are needed. You’re _awesome_.  
  
“You lying bitch,” Sam grits out, and you recognize dimly that he looks terrified, more terrified than you’ve ever seen him, but that is right, he should be terrified before your Father. He tries to use his powers on you, and you smile at him when it doesn’t work.  
  
“You poisoned me,” he says, horrified, and you drop down beside him, speaking as kindly as your triumph will allow, telling him the truth, the perfect truth, for the very first time.

“Why me?” he breathes, and he still looks wounded beyond measure, but you know you can make him understand.  
  
“Because it had to be you, Sammy,” you tell him, every inch of you aching with love. “It always had to be you.”  
  
His brother breaks down the door, your killing knife in hand, and you turn to him, unafraid. Sam is at your back, your Lord is about to rise, and you are finished.   
  
“You’re too late,” you tell Dean Winchester, and you can’t stop smiling.

“I don’t care,” he says, looking past you with dead eyes, and Sam’s strong, murdering hands catch you up and pull you close.  
  
Step six:  
  
If you die before your Lord is risen, do not blame the boy. He must prepare the way for Lucifer.

Accept your death with grace.


End file.
